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The raven, Noctis, turned its small, sleek head with unhurried grace. Its eyes, cold and depthless, slid across the few students who had made the loudest commotion only moments before.
Where its gaze passed, it struck like an unseen whip.
Each of them stiffened at once, a tremor running through their bodies. Not one dared to linger. They scrambled in frantic silence, rushing to every possible hiding place.
Hands trembled as they dug through cupboards and corners, dragging out the hidden shoes and crumpled magazines they had thought safely stashed away.
All the while, Noctis stood firmly upon Mason Lary's shoulder, a heavy black statue of living shadow. Its weight pressed down on him until he could barely draw a full breath.
At last, when Mason returned Luna's belongings with both hands, his fingers shook so violently that the items nearly slipped from his grasp. Only then did the tension soften from Astoria's face, and a quiet smile finally touched her lips.
"Thank you, Mr. Noctis."
Luna's voice floated out like a soft bell, light and distant. She cradled her recovered treasures close to her chest and gave the raven a solemn nod of gratitude.
The bird showed no sign of notice.
With a sudden sweep of its wings, it launched itself upward and darted across the notice board. Its beak, sharp as a blade, snapped the wavering sheet of parchment clean from its pin.
A pale flame hissed to life along the paper's edge.
The fire danced and flickered, yet it never consumed the sheet. Instead, it burned a thin black trail that wound itself neatly around the border.
Then the raven unclenched its claws. The smoldering parchment spiraled downward, moving as if guided by a hidden spell, and landed with flawless precision in Mason Lary's rigid hands.
His fingers, stiff and trembling, worked to pry it open. The lost-and-found notice had vanished without a trace. In its place stood letters carved with ruthless clarity, each stroke as sharp as the cut of a knife:
༺✧─────────────✧༻
Mason Lary:
Offer an immediate apology for the foolish behavior you and your companions have shown.
Submit a detailed written account of this entire incident to Professor Flitwick.
Note: All of this must be completed before the Hogwarts Express departs. Failure to comply will bring consequences of your own making.
༺✧─────────────✧༻
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The moment Mason and his friends finished reading the knife-like letters, the scorched edges of the parchment flared once more with that strange pale fire.
The flames gave off no heat, yet the sight alone was enough to drive terror straight into their hearts. Mason's breath caught. His hands shook so violently that the parchment slipped from his grasp and drifted toward the ground.
"Cawww—!"
Noctis let out a shriek so harsh it rattled the stone arches overhead. Mason flinched and stumbled backward, fear knocking the strength from his legs. He dropped into a clumsy crouch, nearly crawling as he snatched the burning sheet from the floor.
Before he could steady himself with a full breath, the writing on the parchment shifted once more. New words carved themselves into the page with ruthless clarity, each letter glimmering darkly:
༺✧─────────────✧༻
Repent for your insolence and base conduct.
During the summer break, copy in full the Muggle book "How to Win Friends and Influence People" by Dale Carnegie five time.
On the first day of the new term, deliver every copy to the door of the Advanced Charm Theory and Practice office.
If you fail to finish or dare to treat this lightly, the consequences will be yours alone.
༺✧─────────────✧༻
The raven's black eyes swept across the group, cold and depthless. Its gaze lingered on each terrified face before pausing for a long heartbeat on Mason and his fellow conspirators, whose complexions had blanched to the color of ash.
The boys stiffly bowed at once, offering Luna and Astoria a chorus of apologies that tumbled over one another in their rush.
Noctis paid no heed to their stammering. Its wings snapped open with sudden force, the dark feathers catching the torchlight for the briefest flicker, and then it surged upward like a streak of living shadow. In a heartbeat it was no more than a black thread gliding along the vaulted ceiling of the corridor, vanishing into the night beyond.
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The Great Hall was alive with noise. Young witches and wizards crowded along the four long tables, a sea of robes and restless whispers as everyone waited for Dumbledore to announce the winner of this year's House Cup.
For once, the famed rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin had ended in shared disappointment. Both houses had taken heavy blows, neither came close to victory, and their final scores sank so low that they stood side by side at the very bottom. Their fierce struggle for third place had been as bitter as any of their past battles for the Cup itself.
Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, by contrast, had fought a contest of near-perfect balance. The gemstones in the tall hourglasses rose and fell in turn, the gap between them so narrow that every single point carried weight.
At last Hufflepuff edged ahead with the slimmest of leads and, to the astonishment of the entire hall, claimed the House Cup.
Such a triumph had not been witnessed for many years.
Professor Sprout's round face glowed with delight. Her smile, usually gentle and warm, now blazed with a brilliance that seemed to pour across the hall like sudden sunlight.
The Hufflepuff table erupted. The cheers of the small badgers rose so wildly it seemed they might lift the enchanted ceiling itself.
Much of the credit belonged to Cedric Diggory. He had earned steady points in every class with his sharp mind and tireless devotion to his house, and on the Quidditch pitch he had turned defeat into victory, laying the strongest foundation for their triumph.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione could not hide their disappointment. Every glance betrayed it plainly on their faces.
Though Sargeras had once told them that the House Cup was of little importance, they had not yet learned to carry the result with such lightness.
Sargeras himself was absent from the noisy Great Hall.
He sat alone in his office, his thoughts sharpened to a single point. Through the eyes of the raven, Noctis, he watched far beyond Hogwarts, following the bird's swift flight as it cut across drifting clouds toward the grand towers of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.
The raven broke through a veil of drifting mist and descended to an elegant arched window of the French castle.
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Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Department of Potions
Nightingale's office spread wide and bright beneath a soft magical glow. Along one wall a towering cabinet stretched from floor to ceiling, its shelves lined with rare magical ingredients collected from every corner of the world. Their colors gleamed faintly under the enchanted light, each jar a small treasure.
Near the tall window stood a broad desk crowded with books, rolls of parchment, and delicate instruments that ticked and hummed with precision.
At the far end of the room a compact alchemy station shimmered with a cool metallic sheen.
Through Noctis's keen eyes, Sargeras clearly saw Nightingale bent over a cauldron beside that alchemy bench. She stirred a thick liquid that glowed with an eerie blue radiance, her expression focused and intent.
Only when the raven tapped its beak lightly against the windowpane did she lift her head in mild surprise.
At the sight of the familiar black figure, the tension in her brows eased a little. She set down the stirring rod and raised a hand in welcome. The window opened with a soft click.
Noctis slipped through the gap with practiced ease and came to rest on a safe corner of the alchemy table.
"So it is you. Did Sargeras send you to keep watch?"
Nightingale spoke as if addressing an old acquaintance. She had long grown accustomed to sharing her thoughts with this clever bird, though she never expected it to reply. Her words were more a quiet musing than a true question, as if spoken to the envoy of a distant friend.
This raven was a creature reshaped by magic, and its mind did not always seem entirely clear. Once, she had prepared a potion for Sargeras meant to ease the bird's lingering ailment, yet from the look of it the remedy had brought little change.
Remembering why the bird had come, she sighed softly. Taking up a piece of velvet cloth, she wiped the faint traces of potion from her fingertips.
"Progress… painfully slow," she murmured, her voice low and heavy with weariness. "Painfully slow."
She drifted toward the desk by the window, her tone carrying the same quiet exhaustion, threaded with a trace of frustration so slight it was easy to miss. "I have tried so many different approaches, yet every result has been equally disheartening."
Drawing out the chair, she settled into it and smoothed a sheet of exquisite parchment stamped with the Beauxbatons crest. Taking up a slender black quill, she began to write.
Beauxbatons lay far from Hogwarts. Through the raven's eyes Sargeras could barely follow her movements and read the shape of her words, but sound and further meaning remained beyond his reach.
Tonight Nightingale spoke more than usual, not quite herself.
The raven's dark and depthless eyes never blinked while the quill glided gracefully across the parchment. Through that unwavering gaze, Sargeras seemed to "read" each line even as it took shape:
༺✧─────────────✧༻
Dear Raven,
Noctis brings the silent question you could not ask aloud.
Yet I must confess with regret that I cannot offer either of us the good news we had hoped for.
My research into that stubborn curse has reached an impasse. I have tried every method currently within my reach, and each attempt has failed without exception.
The malediction's persistence far surpasses anything I had imagined. Still, after observing the rhythm of its outbreaks and the subtle connection between misfortune and the host's own luck, a fragile hypothesis has begun to take shape. It remains only a theory, but I suspect the answer lies in… Felix Felicis.
The potion might, for a brief time, suppress or counter the misfortune that the curse continually breeds. It would resemble carving out a calm eddy in a turbulent stream, creating a small refuge where the host might draw breath.
Of course, I have conducted no trials, and I must strongly advise against attempting such a measure without careful preparation and full consideration of the risks. What I can state with certainty is this: it is by no means a cure. At best it may be regarded as a palliative, and its effects could never endure.
I will continue to search for a true solution. As for the Felix Felicis hypothesis, treat it only as an emergency measure, a last resort if every other option fails.
I hope Noctis will deliver this letter swiftly into your hands. Keep our line of contact alive.
Peace to you.
Your faithful,
Nightingale
In the early days of the Rose Moon.
༺✧─────────────✧༻
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[Chapter End's]
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